


wouldn't it be nice

by stonedlennon



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Love at First Sight, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-24 21:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9787619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedlennon/pseuds/stonedlennon
Summary: On the day of his wedding, groom-to-be Paul meets John entirely by chance. There's no such thing as love at first sight - is there? In which John Facebook stalks his ex-girlfriend Yoko, George stages an intervention, and Paul is a bewildered, bisexual English teacher who inadvertently becomes someone's muse.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is just a silly thing that came to mind and wouldn't go away. think of it as an ongoing, lighthearted story that will be like, 60% clumsy getting together, 20% banter, and 20% kissing in cliche rom com situations. emphasis on the rom com. this will be pure fluff. enjoy!
> 
> also: the storyline is loosely based on the film [imagine me & you.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Imagine_Me_%26_You) if you haven't see it, please do. it'll make your life so much better. i wouldn't say this will be a direct rip off, but the bulk of the plot will come from there, with only a few changes. because i hate rom coms and that is the _only_ one i have ever enjoyed, so!
> 
> title comes from ["wouldn't it be nice" by the beach boys.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ULmiYdnU3Bc)
> 
> i'll be updating when i can. stay tuned. also, find me over [here](stonedlennon.tumblr.com) if you want to yell at/love me!

_Colpo di fulmine._ The thunderbolt, as Italians call it.  
-  _Sempre,_ J.M. Darhower

* * *

 

 

“John, this is an intervention.”

The fern fronds prickled up his nose and obscured half of his glasses. John stopped dead just inside the door to Blessed Botanics _,_ the little bell jingling merrily. With one eye closed against a trip to Emergency, and his arms aching from the weight of the fern pot, he snapped, “George, y’pillock, give us a hand.”

A murmur of conversation followed by a thump made John scowl. “Who’s there? George?”

“Hullo, John,” came Ringo’s sheepish voice.

“Help me with this bloody fern,” John demanded. “I’m about to lose me fuckin’ eye.”

There was another thump. “George said I can’t.”

Feeling mightily pissed off, John struggled further into the flower shop. The muscles in his arms burned. Hamming it up to make both bastards feel guilty, John managed to blindly stagger towards the counter and dump the enormous fern pot. Fronds waved dizzily at the ceiling. The sleeves of his jumper were covered in dirt.

Shoving his glasses further up his nose, John peered angrily around the fern to glare at George, who sat cross-legged on a stool behind the counter. He looked like a human pretzel. All that damned yoga, probably.

“Any reason why you’re incapable of common human decency?” John asked sweetly. “Or didn’t ye have a kale shake this mornin’?”

“John,” Ringo warned, leaning his elbows on the counter. He was doing a complicated waggling thing with his eyebrows that was supposed to communicate some obscure meaning. John was far too irritable and cold to play along. Gesturing wildly at his own eyebrows, he snapped, “What’s this? What does that shite mean, Rings?”

As he added, “I’m not a bloody mind reader,” and Ringo went, “Alright, calm yer farm!” George said, “Shut up, John. This is an intervention.”

“I warned you,” Ringo said gloomily.

John narrowed his eyes at them both. “A what?”

“An intervention,” George repeated calmly. His long dark hair curled against his neck, emphasizing the aura of reason that was a result of early morning bikram yoga, veganism, and organic farmer’s markets. John, who hadn’t eaten a vegetable possibly since last week, resented George’s demeanour on that merit alone.

In lieu of answering, John started to brush off the dirt from his jumper. Outside the shop, the crisp mid-autumn wind rattled the window panes. The multi-coloured press of flowers against the glass contrasted sharply with the grey London street beyond. Fuck George, honestly. John had been looking forward to a lazy morning reading the newspaper in bed, but instead he’d woken up to a text that started with, “There’s £20 in it for you,” and ended with a cute plant emoji.

The silence was getting too much. Both George and Ringo were watching him, one with an expression of Zen, the other with a barely contained look of worry. John straightened his sleeves and looked sullenly between them.

“Where’s my twenty quid?” Then, noticing the cup of green tea in front of Ringo, John added, “Ye could at least make me a cuppa.”

George gave him a flat look, but he glanced at Ringo and shrugged. Ringo got up and disappeared through the beaded doorway towards the back of the shop. John called, “No plant water! I want proper tea!” Out of sight, Ringo replied, “Black, no sugar, got it.”

Crossing his arms, John levelled George with the scowl that had squeezed an increase of 3% on his advance from his publisher.

“I’m impervious,” George reminded him. “I meditate.”

“You’re a fuck,” John stated, merciless. When Ringo came back and handed him a mug of steaming tea, John softened slightly. “Ta, Rings. At least _someone’s_ decent.”

George smiled in his way that implied he’d seen the end of the universe, the imminent end of humanity, and what you’d say in the next five minutes, and he wasn’t overly impressed with any of it. “I’ll pay you once ye sit down and hear me out.”

“I’d do it, mate,” Ringo supplied. He scratched his nose and perched on a stool beside George. The front of his hoodie had CHURCH STUDIOS emblazoned across it. “Hear him out, at least.”

“Curiosity, cat,” John reminded them, but he found another stool and sat down on the other side of the counter. Nursing his cup of tea and distantly thinking about whether _Coronation Street_ would be doing a repeat when he got back home, John mumbled, “Fine, hurry up.”

Pleased, George cleared his throat. “This is an intervention,” he started.

“’Ang on, Georgie,” Ringo interrupted. The bell over the front door jingled, bringing with it a gust of cold air. A rustle of an umbrella pre-empted a woman’s voice going, “Oh, I’m sorry, are you open?”

By the time John had disgruntledly moved his stool over so the customer could talk to George about plant fertilizer, buy a potted geranium, and have it gift wrapped, he was about ready to head off. When the door swung closed behind the lady, John drained his mug and got to his feet.

“Steady on, John,” Ringo said, frowning up at him.

“This is exactly why we need an intervention,” George muttered.

“Sorry, fellas. Things to see, people to do.” John patted the pockets of his jacket for some cigarettes, but at George’s scowl he snapped, “Oh, for fuck’s sake. _What_ is so bloody terrible that ye need to trap me in yer greenhouse for a cozy sit down?”

George inhaled slowly, gathering himself. When he spoke, his voice was as measured as when John had once pithily asked, _So, Harrison, what’s your opinion on vaccinations?_ “I’m steppin’ in, mate. It’s been long enough. Ye need help.”

John stared at him. “Sod your help,” he managed.

“Case, point,” George quipped with a raised eyebrow. “Really, man. I’m here for ye, alright?”

John looked at Ringo disbelievingly. “Why are you ‘ere, then?”

“Moral support?” Ringo tried.

“Oh, now I’m reassured.”

Pinching his lips against John’s sarcasm, George picked up his own cup of green tea. “We’re intervening because as of last week, you’re in dire straits, my friend.”

“You what?” John scoffed. “Mate, I’m on top of the world. Never been better. Happy as a fuckin’ clam. Can I go now?”

“Not yet. Have you stopped Facebook stalking Yoko?”

John’s phone felt very conspicuous in his pocket. He eyed George warily. “Yes.”

When Ringo said, “That’s a lie,” John snapped, “Who’s fuckin’ side are ye on anyway!”

“Well, it _is_ a lie,” Ringo insisted. “You save her Snapchat stories.”

Belligerently, John drew himself up. “They’re very amusin’, I’ll have ye know.”

“Her last one was about a leaf on the ground,” George pointed out wryly.

Ringo made a thoughtful noise. “Bit better than her one about the ant, though.”

“Alright!” Crossing his arms tightly, John glared at Ringo, then George. When he met George’s calm, slightly amused eyes, his lips thinned. “Your point bein’?”

George sipped his tea. “You told me once that if you grew any facial hair, it was ‘the end’.”

“Of what?” John asked, confused.

“Dunno. But that, my friend, is a moustache of melancholy.”

Spluttering, John gestured at Ringo’s droopy upper lip. “And Ringo doesn’t look like a ‘70s porn star?”

Ringo blinked and said in a wounded tone, “Maureen likes it.”

“Maureen’s probably legally blind,” John snapped.

“Point being,” George continued over Ringo’s loud exclamation, “you’re stalking Yoko. You’ve grown a moustache. You’ve not eaten a vegetable since last week. And you watch more television than any human should in his or her lifetime.”

John peered at him suspiciously. “How’d ye know about the vegetables?”

“You need an intervention, John.” George gave him a sympathetic look. “This is your intervention.”

There was very little John could argue with at this point, but he could try. Sinking down onto his stool, he looked at Ringo and George in turn. “It’s a phase,” he tried. “Comes with bein’ a writer, doesn’t it? Gimme some time and I’ll be top of me game again.”

“Alright,” George said, sounding conciliatory. “In that case, give me yer telly.”

John’s blood ran cold. “You wouldn’t.”

“Then come over to mine and I’ll cook ye some proper food.”

“Does it have the terms ‘poached’, ‘steamed’, or ‘organic’ in the title?”

“Delete Yoko from Facebook.”

John bristled. “Fuck off.”

“Ye might as well start there, mate.” When John glared at Ringo, he shrugged. His enormous, oversized hoodie made him look like a turtle. “What? S’a good beginning. She was the one who did this to ye in the first place.”

Alright, so the catalogue of John’s romantic attachments wasn’t the healthiest or the most enviable example of an ideal twenty-something’s love life. But for a while, Yoko had been the perfect fit. She was artistic, strange, intelligent. They used to do the crosswords in bed together and have shower sex that, for some inexplicable reason, once involved her Lush conditioner. Still, John wasn’t going to complain. For a sliver of time in his otherwise greyscale and utterly moronic and boring existence, Yoko made him feel like he wasn’t another washed up writer-turned-bookshop-owner floating along without a paddle. John didn’t want to dwell on the very real possibility that, without her to distract him, he might wake up in fifteen years and find himself in the same shitty flat with the same shitty job.

John found himself touching his moustache. “I like it,” he muttered.

“You do look good,” Ringo commented.

“Thanks, mate.”

George held his cup of tea in his hands. “I’m not havin’ a go at ye,” he continued gently. “We’re worried, that’s all.”

“I’m depressed,” John pointed out, “not hopeless.”

“Aye, fair enough. But you should consider changing yer surroundings t’better support yer new lease of life. Go for a walk, like. Do some meditation.”

“Some Buddhist chanting,” John supplied, facetious. When George frowned and said, “I’m not Buddhist,” John threw his hands in the air.

“What Georgie means,” Ringo hurried to say, “is that hanging around home and mopin’ doesn’t do anyone any good.” He looked at George. “Tell ‘im about the thing.”

John gave him a flat look. “’The thing,’” he echoed.

“The thing,” George confirmed. “How’d ye like weddings?”

“Rarely and only if drunk.” John wished he were curled up in bed with _Coronation_ on. Or maybe with his laptop and Yoko’s Insta open. Her latest photos had all been of her at various artsy bars in the inner city, surrounded by mates from her gallery. John’s social life, by comparison, consisted of his mixed-breed cat and the pigeons that hung around the railing of his balcony in the morning.

What he really hated about this stupid intervention thing was that George was right. Not that he’d ever say as much aloud – George would possibly achieve the ego to finally master levitation or some other New Age shite – but it had occurred to him (last Wednesday, around midday, after a confused nap about a sinking ship) that he could only continue in this way for so long. Sooner or later the bank would start harping on about the bookshop; or his agent would send him another email with the subject line JUST CHECKING IN, SUPERSTAR!; or he’d end up caving and calling his first girlfriend, Cynthia, and having terrible, drunken pity sex on his kitchen floor.

Why did everyone have to be so bloody invested in his train wreck of a life? What could do in order to wallow in peace?

Feeling thoroughly ungrateful about George and Ringo’s compassion, John crossed his legs and hunched further into his jacket. He narrowed his eyes and looked at them in turn.

“Do I have to be nice?” he asked.

“Preferably,” George confirmed.

“Do I have to _talk_?”

“That would be helpful.”

“Will I get paid?”

George opened his mouth in the same instant Ringo elbowed him in the ribs. They glanced at each other. “Sure,” George relented.

John looked down his nose. “And _if_ I do this – wedding whatever – will ye leave me alone?”

“Only if you delete Yoko from Facebook.” When John glared at him, Ringo smiled sympathetically. “Ye know it’s for the best, mate.”

 _Unbelievable._ “Fine!”

“By Facebook,” George added, “we mean all forms of social media.”

Ringo sounded almost comically sheepish: “Her Snaps are _really_ bad, John.”

Bristling, John said, “Well, why ‘ave her as a friend, then, if you’re such a fuckin’ critic?”

“He’s too polite,” George said, as Ringo lamented, “It’s me good nature.”

“Sod your good nature.” Getting to his feet, John tried and failed to regard his best friends with as much austerity as he could manage. After a beat, he said, “Can I have me twenty quid now?”

George pursed his lips but leaned over to open the till. Ringo was doing his eyebrow waggling thing again. After a confused pause, John told him, “I have no fuckin’ idea what you’re on about.”

“Here.” Getting up and handing John a crumpled note, which John immediately snatched, George tilted his head to regard him. “You’ve not asked what I need ye for.”

“It’s only a bleedin’ wedding.” Buttoning up his jacket and peering out the window, John only spared a glance in their direction. “Sort the bouquet, drop off some sprays of baby’s breath, Bob’s your uncle. Why does it ‘ave to rain _right_ as I’m about the walk out the fuckin’ door?”

As John unhappily considered the rain that had, indeed, started to fall at that precise moment, George said, “I’ll text ye the details. Alright? And, John.” He furrowed his brow. “Don’t be late, please. I know time management isn’t your best skill, but I’ve not got anyone else t’help me at such late notice.”

“Bully for me,” John deadpanned. “You’ve got a boomin’ business. Why don’t ye hire some lackey instead of draggin’ me away at all hours to pick up a fern?”

George gave him a sarcastic smile. “Maybe it’s yer personality.”

“Get Rings to help out next time. I was havin’ a nice mornin’ before your ruddy text came through.” He’d set George’s text alert to the sound of [Humma Kavula’s sneezing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nGRIKGHIA5M) as a dig about George’s newfound spirituality; he hadn’t, however, considered how startling it was having your phone sneeze at you at seven fifteen when you were barely conscious or slightly hungover.

Ringo pulled on his denim jacket. “Leave me outta it,” he said in an undertone.

“Rings doesn’t own a bookshop he can close whenever he wants,” George pointed out. Rather unreasonably, in John’s opinion.

Unamused, John watched Ringo pull his hood over the collar of his jacket. “Oh, yeah? And who’s backin’ track are ye bangin’ on now, then? Madonna?”

Ringo rolled his eyes. “Even your hip chick references are out of date. Try Adele.”

As one, John and George exclaimed variations of, “Fuck off,” and, “You never.”

Smiling enigmatically as he passed John on his way to the shop door, Ringo merely started whistling an unfamiliar tune. John and George shared an incredulous look.

“Thanks for the tea,” Ringo called over his shoulder. “I’m due back at the studio. Sorry I can’t stay.”

“Yeah, me too,” John said quickly. “Dead busy. It’s paperback season.”

“You’re utterly transparent, John Lennon.”

Following Ringo out onto the street, John stuck his head through the door and shot George a wink. Grinning as George fought down a laugh, John watched him for a brief moment. Ringo muttered something behind him, like, “Want a lift home, then?” John licked his bottom lip briefly.

“Listen… Thanks.” He shifted uncomfortably. “For – y’know.”

George’s smile was warm. “S’alright, mate. I’m here fer ye, okay? No judgement.”

“Yeah, yeah.” After a beat, John added, “Really, though, how’d ye know about the vegetables?”  


* * *

  
It was bad luck to see the bride before the wedding. Hell, Paul had been coquettishly reminding everyone of that all bloody morning.

But now that he had approximately one hour until he saw Jane at the altar beside him, he was wondering just _how_ much bad luck was involved, and whether it’d _really_ be that bad. Paul stared dazedly at his reflection. Behind him, George was adjusting his tie from over his shoulders and frowning.

“That doesn’t look straight,” Paul blurted. “Look. S’all wonky.”

“Leave off an’ stand still,” George replied indistinctly. He narrowed his eyes to focus. Paul’s lavender tie, which was secured by a tasteful gold pin picked out by Jane’s brother Peter, shifted slightly to the left.

A nervous sweat had started beneath Paul’s armpits. “Oh, God.”

George caught his eye in the mirror. “You alright, man? You’re not gonna be sick, are ye?”

He swallowed compulsively. “I actually don’t know. Maybe.”

“Considerin’ that was the tamest stag’s do I’ve ever been on, I can only surmise you’re thinkin’ of Jane _.”_

“Well, I am about to be married!” Paul hadn’t intended to sound quite so shrill.

George gave his tie a final adjustment and patted his shoulders. “You’ll be right, Paul. People ‘ave been gettin’ married for centuries. Breathe in and out.”

Turning to face his best man, Paul tried to mimic George’s daft yoga breathing. Each time he inhaled, his lungs felt as if they were made of iron. He waved his hands in the general vicinity of his chest and shook his head. Noticing Paul’s widening eyes, George went, “In and out!” Panic rose quick as bile in Paul’s throat. In a rush, he said, “Oh, shit, I’m going to be sick.”

There came a knock on the hotel door. George said, “There’s the bin over there,” before going off to answer it. _Blimey_ , Paul thought wildly. If he could see Jane, he’d be alright. Just knowing that she was elsewhere in the hotel, surrounded by her family, looking resplendent in a foamy white dress just for them… The image steadied Paul’s next exhale, and the next. Jane, with her bright, clever eyes; Jane, with her copper hair done up in a messy bun, watching her students onstage with a slight smile; Jane, catching his gaze from across the staff room and blushing.

Four years. They’d been together for four years, and Paul had known for three of them that didn’t want to be with anyone other than her.

The door closed. George came back into the bedroom. “Sorry,” he said. “Me mate’s supposed to be helpin’ with the flowers, but a bell boy’s just been stuck with a truckload of lilies.”

“Oh.” Lilies? Had Jane chose the lilies after all? “Right. D’ye want to –”

“No, no, I’ll give him a text.” Ever stoic, George pulled out his phone and swiped the screen. Paul distantly watched his thumbs tap out a message, his gaze blurring with a renewed ripple of panic. He smoothed his hands over his trouser thighs and made himself think of cool, calming things. Like marking assignments, or playground duty, or _bloody hell, I’m going to be married._

Paul looked quickly around the room, thinking vaguely of shimmying down a drainpipe, making for the M64, and taking the plane trip to Paris for a honeymoon for one. Jane wouldn’t mind. She’d been resistant about Paris, anyway. It’d been him, with notions of strolling beneath the Eiffel Tower and wandering through the Louvre and having fantastically lazy morning sex in a soft bed, that had convinced her.

“I think they’re locked,” George remarked dryly, as Paul nonchalantly tried the latch on a window.

Defensively, Paul replied, “I knew that.”

When George’s phone trilled, Paul started violently. Staring at him, George slowly held up his phone. “That was a text back. Maybe ye should sit down; you’ve gone all grey.”

Nodding, Paul sank slowly down on the bed. He caught sight of his reflection again in the mirror. A man with slightly curled dark hair, slender eyebrows, worried hazel eyes, and a charcoal grey suit stared back at him. He reached up to gently adjust his pin tie. He pulled out his phone to check the time. Forty five minutes. _Bloody hell,_ he thought with a distant sense of nausea.

“Alright. Sorted.” George locked his phone and came to stand in front of Paul. When their eyes met, George smiled at him reassuringly. “Come on, mate. Nothin’ to fear. S’just Jane, right?”

“Yeah.” Paul swallowed past his dry throat and nodded again. “Yeah, s’just Jane.”

George sat down next to him. The duvet dipped beneath his weight. “How about ye tell me about when ye first met? It’ll take yer mind off things, like.”

Paul rubbed a hand over his mouth. His upper lip was slightly damp. Swallowing again, Paul breathed out and focused on the mirror across the room. “Right. Yeah, good one. Um. So, I was the new guy, brought in for the new term. They’d done the curriculum all different, so like, they needed someone, um, young and, I dunno, vivacious and stuff. And I fit the bill. Um, and I went into the – it’s funny.” Paul bit down on a grin. “I went into the staff room, and everyone there was like, fifty or over, right? And I thought, ‘bloody hell’, and then this girl with bright, bright red hair turned around and I saw her, and I thought –”

“This is it,” George said quietly.

Paul looked at him, a helpless smile breaking his nerves. “’This is it’. I was just, a total goner, you know? She was amazingly funny and beautiful and kind. And best of all, she liked me.”

They shared a grin. “Everyone likes ye, mate,” George reminded him. “That’s not so much of a surprise.”

“Not like her, though. You know. Jane was so – out of my league. This drop dead gorgeous drama teacher, likin’ someone like me?” Paul exhaled steadily. George noticed and nodded, quickly miming that he should continue. They looked at each other as Paul breathed in and out a few more times.

After a couple of minutes, George said, “Feelin’ better?”

“Loads.” Paul’s pulse had slowed to a steady beat. He wiped his upper lip on the back of his hand. “How’d ye know all that stuff, anyroad?”

“Yoga,” George replied promptly. “Ye should try it.”

“Yeah, maybe in another life.” Thirty five minutes to go. Paul fidgeted with his phone and mechanically forced himself to lock it. “Oh, God.” His right leg wouldn’t stop bouncing up and down.

A text alert came through on George’s phone. He checked it and said, “Right on time. Come ‘ead, we better get in the car. Traffic and that, ye know.”

“Shit.” Paul stared up at him, wide-eyed. His leg had stopped bouncing. There was a renewed prickle of sweat beneath his shoulder blades. “Already? Can’t we –”

George rolled his eyes and grabbed Paul’s upper arm. “Get up, you. Come on.”

Letting himself be manhandled was better than the alternative, which Paul knew would end with him spreadeagled on the floor contemplating his entire existence. _I’m going to be married._ Those same words wound through his head, dipping and weaving between memories of cooking dinner with Jane, decorating their apartment, kissing sweetly outside cafes, the way she burst into laughter when he got down on one knee. _About bloody time!_ It was only when they were halfway down the corridor that Paul stopped dead and exclaimed, “Shit! Where the hell is Mike?”

As Paul whipped around and made to go back to the room, muttering, “Oh my God, I’ve left Mike behind,” George seized his arm again.

“He’s at the church, ye bellend,” George said, exasperated. “He’s meetin’ us there? You need a mantra, my friend.”

“Oh.” Paul sheepishly turned around, and together they started back down the corridor. “Wait!”

“Jim’s there too.” Shaking his head, George gently coaxed Paul into walking again. “Yoga. Really. Trust me.”

“I don’t like the chanting,” Paul said vaguely. The foyer of the hotel was bursting with people. Beyond the far double doors, the ballroom for their reception was being decked out to the nines. Paul focused on putting one foot in front of the other, his brogues clicking on the marble floor, George steady as a rock by his side.

“There’s no chanting in yoga,” George was saying pedantically as they navigated out into the brisk autumn air. “Honestly, you lot, you’d think meditation was a gateway to another bloody universe.”

Catching sight of the vintage Rolls-Royce that was waiting for them, Paul said in a strangled sort of tone, “Isn’t it, though?”

“No.” George frog-marched him to the car.

When they were both in the backseat and the driver had pulled out of the hotel drive, Paul gripped the handle in the car door and concentrated very hard on remaining completely in control. The car inched into the midday London traffic. The sky was slate grey, with heavy clouds over the London Eye threatening rain. A damp breeze blew orange leaves across the static lanes of cars and buses. Some cheery pop song was playing on the radio.

“Can ye turn that off?” The driver caught his eye in the rear-view mirror and frowned.

“Please,” Paul begged. “I’m going to be sick.”

“You won’t be sick,” George said stoically.

Paul roughly rubbed the side of his face. “Oh, shit. I’ve changed me mind. Turn around!”

“Don’t turn around! Paul, listen to me.” George gripped his thigh and ducked down to meet Paul’s panicked gaze. “Paul, it’s fine. It’ll be fine. You’re doin’ the right thing. Ye love each other. There is nothin’ more pure or better than that.”

From up front, the driver said, “He’s right, you know.”

“Yeah.” Paul looked between them and nodded. The distant thump of uncertainty swelled until his jugular beat _no no no_ over and over. He stared into George’s calm expression. “Yeah. You’re right. This is the right thing to do.”

Exhaling slowly, Paul looked away and out the window. There was a distant rumble of thunder.

 _You love her,_ he reminded himself. _She is your best friend._

“I’m doing the right thing,” Paul tried aloud.

The driver beeped the horn. “That’s the spirit, lad.”  


* * *

  
There was no way in hell George would pay him twenty quid now. John dashed through the parking lot of the church with roughly a dozen bouquets of lilies heaped in his arms. Wedding guests milled around, chatting and laughing, the women holding their hats down every time a gust of wind swept over the damp pavement. “Excuse me!” John yelled. “Pardon! Thank _you._ ”

A tall, blonde man watched John struggle past and sniffed. “I say.”

“Flower emergency, chum,” John snarled, “move it.”

If John were a romantic person – which he wasn’t, for the record – he might consider the church to be a decent place for a wedding. Austere grey-brown stone, stained glass windows, an enormous interior with glossy teak wooden floors: even the coy cherubs carved into the pillars seemed endearing.

Compared to the chill outside, the church was only a mild relief. John’s muffler trailed on the ground and the laces of his doc martens had come loose as he stomped up the centre aisle. His arms ached beneath the weight of three hundred pounds’ worth of organic and locally-sourced white lilies. The thump of his footsteps attracted the attention of a bloke in a nice suit who was hovering by the altar and talking to the priest.

Dark eyebrows quirked in surprise as John approached. “Hullo,” he said, Liverpudlian accent and all. “Are you from Blessed Botanics?”

Trust George to name his flower shop under the influence of weed. “Yeah,” John muttered, shifting so a lily didn’t go straight up his nose. “You the groom, then?”

The bloke laughed. “No, mate. I’m his brother. Want any help?”

Together they unloaded the bouquets and somewhat hesitantly placed them around the front of the church. If George didn’t like the way it turned out, he ought to have sorted it himself. John busied himself by thinking dark thoughts, trying to wipe his dribbling nose on the shoulder of his jacket, and keeping his glasses from slipping off his fat, ugly face. The brother, who introduced himself as, “Michael, but Mike’s fine,” wasn’t as useless as John feared. After a while they stood back to consider their handiwork.

“Well, it’ll have t’do,” Mike sighed, brushing pollen off the front of his suit. “Don’t have a clue about this flower stuff. Does it look alright to you?”

John gave him a flat look. “Do I look like a bloke who’d care about lilies?” There were bouquets everywhere; the scent mingled headily with the smell of incense. “It looks like a fuckin’ funeral.”

Mike coughed on a laugh. “Er. I’ll keep that between us, if ye don’t mind.”

“Suit yeself.” John sniffed. Patting his pockets for the truck keys, he wondered whether it’d be very unprofessional to loiter around outside and have a cigarette.

The brother was watching him from the corner of his eye. When John mumbled, “Right, I’m off,” he said, “Hope this sounds alright, but you look kinda familiar.”

John paused in the act of pulling out the keys. He studied Mike for a long moment. “We’re not even at the reception yet,” he joked.

Mike went a funny mottled colour. “Oh! God, no. I mean – no. Sorry. Uh. I’m not –”

Ah, the inevitable gay panic. Watching Mike flounder was almost as good as the repeat of _Big Brother_ last night. John raised an amused eyebrow. “S’alright, mate. I was kiddin’.”

“My brother’s the one who – Bollocks. Sorry.” Mike wrinkled his nose and scratched his head. “I sound like a bastard, don’t I?”

“A bit,” John agreed, and Mike sighed. “Yeah. Shit. Let’s forget that didn’t happen. I only meant that I think I’ve seen ye around before? Maybe? Do ye know me brother?”

“If he’s chosen lilies for a weddin’,” John said, “then no.”

Mike smirked. “Fair play. Did George sell the flower shop, then?”

“No. I…” What _did_ he do? “Help out,” John finished lamely. _Instead of working on my next novel,_ he thought, _like every failed writer ever._ As Mike made a thoughtful noise and nodded, glancing towards the double doors of the church, John said, “Ye know old George, then?”

“Sorry? Oh, yeah. Brilliant guy. He and Paul ‘ave been thick as thieves since they were kids.” People were starting to come into the church, their shoes sounding on the heavy dark floors, conversation drifting up to the vaulted stone ceilings. Mike tilted his head and looked at John. “You know, if ye want to, ye could stay for the ceremony. George is best man. I know Paul wouldn’t mind.” He gave a short laugh. “Paul loves love. He’d be honoured.”

John fought against grimacing. “Thanks for the offer,” he replied awkwardly. “But I best – don’t wanna hang around, ye know. Without an invite. Bit rude and all that.” Not that he’d ever cared about being rude before.

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry.” Mike frowned and smiled at him. “It’s a weird day. Me brother’s gettin’ married. There’s a lot of – I dunno. It’s weird. Anyroad, sorry t’keep ye. Thanks fer the lilies.”

“S’alright, mate.” John stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. They looked at each other for a beat before Mike said, “I best…” and John went, “Yeah, yeah,” and made to leave down the centre aisle.

Guests were arriving in a steady stream. Somewhere up the back of the church, an organ had lapsed into a slow warm up, the sound humming on the buzz of conversation and sense of excitement. John, in his rough t-shirt, jeans, docs, and jacket, was a literal black smudge in a sea of pale, creamy colours. Women in gorgeous dresses and men in neat suits all sailed past, exclaiming at the décor and the imminent ceremony.

John gave up politely elbowing his way through and started wriggling between bodies. The organ player started up a slightly louder song; there was a sudden burst of energy among the crowd. The car keys dug into John’s palm. He renewed his efforts to fight through the throng, although as more people took their seats, several curious eyes found him in the pretty human current.

He was nearing the sprays of flowers affixed to the final pew when the music suddenly stopped. Through the open doors to the church, a sleek car had pulled up. John stared, aghast, before practically leaping behind a pillar. A little boy dangled over the back of the last pew, his mouth ajar. They looked at each other. John slowly raised a finger to his lips. The little boy blinked.

The priest by the door motioned to someone out of sight. As the organ quickly started up again, the conversation returned. False alarm. John itched for a cigarette.

 _I’m going to murder George,_ he thought savagely. If it weren’t for him, John would be in bed with a fat blunt right about now.

Speak of the devil: George appeared in the doorway, straightening the lapels of his suit. A figure came up the stone steps behind him. John stuck his head around the pillar and hissed, “Harrison, you fuck!”

Fortunately, the conversation and music swelled enough to disguise John’s language, although the priest turned and glared at him. George caught his eye and made an elaborate expression of confusion.

John gestured wildly. “Come ‘ead! Come _here_!”

“What?” George glanced at the other bloke, whose back was turned, before coming over to John. He ducked his head slightly and stage-whispered, “Why are ye still here?”

“The lilies!” John snarled. “The fuckin’ – the lilies were late. I had to wait for them to –” The organist began the tune up for a wedding march; the crowd rippled in anticipation. “Christ. Look, help me escape.”

“John, I can’t.” George glanced towards the altar. “I have t’go. I’m best man. Look, just take a seat and wait it out, alright?”

“I am not,” John replied with deadly calm, “gate crashin’ a wedding.”

“Not the first time,” George pointed out. John shrugged and made a face. “Seriously, go sit down. Paul’s a great guy. He won’t mind. Here, come ‘ead.” And for the second time that day, George grabbed a reluctant someone by the upper arm and dragged him from relative safety.

John tried valiantly to resist as George hauled him up the left-hand aisle. He caught the eyes of guests and smiled, hoping beyond hope that this wasn’t some horrid cosmic karma finally catching up to him. It was Yoko who’d said they couldn’t get married; the fact that John was here, being squashed into the end of the first pew beside a sticky five year old, could only be explained by the universe giving him an enormous two fingered salute.

“Sit here and be quiet.” Before George could leave, John seized the arm of his suit jacket.

“Fifty quid,” he managed through gritted teeth.

George only sighed and gently shook himself free. He patted John on the shoulder. “Try to keep the cynicism to a minimum, Lennon. Oh –” George gave him a teasing look. “And it’ll be twenty. The lilies look shite.”

John made to grapple him to the ground, but George only smirked and slipped away to the altar. Fuming, John crossed his arms. He caught the eye of the kid beside him, who had one finger up his nose and was gazing up at John with a vacant expression.

“Just you wait,” John warned. “You’re next. Time stops for no man.”

Perhaps he could escape mid-way through the ceremony. Weddings didn’t go for long, did they? Restlessly, John shifted in his seat, glancing over his shoulder to peer towards the open double doors at the end of the church. Some guests glanced at him, annoyed, although most were gazing at the altar or murmuring to each other. There was a sense of occasion in the air; everyone looked cheery.

John noticed a few people had programs done in a heavy creamy paper. Hunching further into his muffler, he leaned forward to look around the little boy. He nudged the kid and gestured to a program on the pew in front of a woman who, John assumed, was the boy’s mother.

“Pass us that, son,” he muttered. The boy looked between him and the program, finger still in nose. After a confused beat, he pulled his finger free and picked the program up with the offending hand. When he handed it to John, he smiled stickily.

Resisting the urge to be sick, John managed, “Thanks.”

PAUL MCCARTNEY & JANE ASHER. John had a mental image of a bloke with slicked-back hair, perhaps with an unhealthy gym obsession, and a long-standing lad’s night out every Saturday. The bird sounded equally dull: a bobbed brunette, conservative clothing, probably a subscription to a fashion magazine, or _Horse and Country._ These imaginary people didn’t suit George as a person, but then again, John had only known George for a coupla years. Childhood friends - that was what that Mike guy had said. Who knew what George had been prior to his healthy eating, mantra chanting lifestyle?

Intrigued and amused by the idea that he could be right, John lowered the program and peered towards the altar. George and Mike were standing side by side, talking quietly to each other. On their other side was a tall bloke with broad shoulders in a fitted, long-tailed suit. He tipped his head back and exhaled at the vaulted ceiling. From this angle his eyelashes were absurdly long.

Something stirred in John’s chest. He hitched his glasses further up his nose to better focus. The groom had soft dark hair, slightly too long, and old-fashioned sideboards that made John think of the late sixties or another era that style forgot. His cheeks were smooth and freshly shaven. Long legs in tight trousers hinted at taut calf muscles and round, strong thighs, which John found himself leaning forward to get a better look at. The suit pulled distractingly across his arms, which were clasped in front of his sharp, tapered waist. As John watched, the bloke reached up quickly to rub at a plump mouth, as if he were nervous.

John licked his bottom lip. Sinking back against the wooden pew, he thought vaguely of the last time he’d been with a bloke. Before Yoko, definitely. After Cynthia? A kaleidoscope of men and women, he knew that much. John realized he was fidgeting with the edge of the program and forced himself to stop.

There came a sudden hush in conversation. Guests turned in their seats to look towards the double doors.  After an anticipatory pause, the organ began the wedding march. Music swelled up stone pillars and blossomed over the distant drum of rain against the stained glass windows. A chill breeze made John shove his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket.

As one, the guests stood up. John glared at the back of George’s head. The little boy tugged on his sleeve and said loudly, “Look at my auntie. She’s a bridge.”

“A bride,” John corrected, irritably getting to his feet.

The music built steadily. He should have escaped while he had the chance; now he was trapped. John shifted his weight and glanced around him. He realized he’d stopped to linger on the groom, whose head was tilted slightly in John’s direction, as if to watch his bride approach in his peripheral vision. Dark eyelashes fanned against pale cheeks. And then he blinked, and looked up, and he found John’s gaze.

John froze. His breath caught suddenly in his throat. Something intense shot through him, a hot bolt of electricity, that made his skin prick in fright. Wide hazel eyes stared back, all pretense dropped. Confusion flickered across his handsome face. Paul licked his lips abruptly; John felt the heat rise in his cheeks. And in the next instant, those eyes jerked away.

His heartbeat pounded close to the surface. John was rooted to the spot; his lungs tightened. Silvery light glanced off Paul's smooth face, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way his expression closed over that brief ripple of alarm. He had turned to watch his bride climb the stone steps to the altar. A cascade of copper hair contrasted sharply with her white wedding dress. When she looked up at Paul, his cheek dimpled when he smiled. John's pulse quickened.

Sudden realization gripped him. 

 _Oh,_ he thought distantly,  _fuck._


End file.
